


Over the Waterfall

by SpoonerizeSwiftness (SplickedyHat)



Series: Heavy In Your Arms [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Abolished Hemospectrum, Bigotry & Prejudice, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dubcon or Noncon Moirallegiance, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Hate Crimes, Hurt/Comfort, I apologize., M/M, Mutilation, Mutual Crushes, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slurs, Violence, Wow this is a lot of very dark tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/pseuds/SpoonerizeSwiftness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're totally fuckin' aware your fins and your gills and your ugly royal purple blood make you a target, but you've battered your way up from the ground through pure stubbornness and if you want to just walk through the city in the evening with your fins untaped and traces of your blood color in your hair, you're due one free pass, right?</p><p>In the wake of the Second Sufferer and his infamous coldblooded moirail's rise to wealth and privilege, a battered and wary brineblooded troll suffers the fallout of the anti-sufferist movement, and finally recieves the fruit of his labors.  And maybe starts to realize he has more than a few ideas--and feelings--above his station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Waterfall

Your name is Eridan Ampora and you’re worth ten times what anyone will ever credit you for.

You are basically the second shittiest hemo-caste you can possibly be, and as such you get through every shitty day by being as much of a sarcastic douche to people as you can get away with, forming detailed political theories, hoarding every penny you can make and using your own tendency to think of yourself as a tragic martyr to your advantage.  You can’t feel like a martyr properly when you’re lyin’ around at home, after all.  You have to be at work, doin’ important things even though you’re starvin’ and tired and never at the right temperature, or else you can’t do it right.  So you work the shittiest shifts and the worst jobs around the palace, because they pay like hell, and occasionally you even get to run messages to the emperor or get a hand into politics.

And because you do the shittiest jobs, you know the dirtiest secrets.  You know that spymaster Captor and The Second Sufferer are wigglerhood friends and they fight all the time and you know the Second Sufferer sometimes cries at night and especially when he’s with his moirail, which you kind of wish you didn’t know.  It makes your stomach hurt.  You know the romantic drama for the entire palace guard and you’ve even ended up in ashen flings with a few of them.

(…you know about the emperor and Makara holding hands and whispering to each other and holding on to each other tight in dark corners, and that’s your most dangerous secret right there, makes you nervous even thinking about it.)

And now you’re recently reassigned and in the highest spot you’ve ever had, which is standin’ in front of a respite block door and glarin’ at the hallway.

The emperor’s coldblood, Makara, has taken to following Vantas to his sermons, or watching them on screen when he can’t, and writing down every word with painstaking care.  He posts them online— _the red blog of the iron infidel,_ Captor jokes every single time he has a chance—and the assassination attempts have increased again.  Which leaves you here, in the middle of the day, standing outside his room with the fingers of one hand tapping lazily on the hilt of your gun.

This spree is going to pay well, at least.  There were openings before and after the shift you usually guard, and sure you’ve been up for almost 48 hours, sure you went three rounds with one of Zahhak’s robots today and you feel like pulp, sure you haven’t eaten and your hands are kind of shaking, but the pay is going to be so worth it.  You’re gonna have rent money, _and_ money to re-dye the purple that’s starting to grow into your roots, and maybe even a really thick coat to get Fef through the winter.

You allow yourself a brief moment of self-congratulation, and then go back to considering the fuckin’ ridiculous prices for food and medicine and worryin’ over one of Fef’s eyes that you think might be getting infected.  You’re definitely not fallin’ asleep on your feet, but you’re still not exactly solid right now, which is probably why you jump a little when you hear a noise from down the hall and aim your gun at the shadowy figure’s face.

“State name’n business,” you snap—uh, huh, that came out a little slurred.  Wow. 

The figure stops and raises its hands cautiously, which is a big point in its favor right there.  You don’t lower your gun though, because that’s been something they’ve tried before.  “Imperial guard, unit six, Arkent Winnow,” says a dry voice.  “…Rust, thirteen goddamn sweeps and two nights and I know for a fact you haven’t been home since I turned thirteen, Ampora.”

Oh. 

You sag a little and captchalogue your gun again as your relief comes out of the shadows, all scrawny muscle and sharp-crooked horns.  Ark is basically the task-troll for the whole palace, regardless of rank or actual age in sweeps—thirteen sweeps ain’t all that impressive, but it’s been all streets and fighting all the way back and Ark’s a rusty anyway.  You’ll be alive long after the guard falls to somebody else.

For now though, Arkent Winnow is in charge and you step aside, glancing back into the room on instinct; Makara is still sprawled on his couch in a big mess of lanky limbs and big horns and knobbly joints. 

“Ark, you gotta not come outta the dark like that,” you say plaintively, and Ark grunts and whaps you on the shoulder.  “I coulda blown your head off.”

“You ‘coulda’ done no such thing.”  You’re elbowed out of the way—geez, sharp elbows.  The sharpest.  “You’re half asleep, Ampora.”

“Vile slander,” you protest, and then flush because wow, that was about the most seadweller thing you’ve said in a long time.  “Wile slandah”, haha.  Shit maybe you are as tired as all that.  Ark smacks you again—you wince and realize you were sort of listing to one side, staring into space and grinning absently. 

“Take that shit off your fins and get out of here, Ampora.  You’re dead on your feet.”

You salute as sharply as you can, and gladly follow orders.

\--

The cold twilight air is like a refreshing smack in the face when you walk out of the palace in your dingy coat—your fins twitch and catch at the breeze and it’s fuckin’ glorious.  You’re still exhausted, but walking home doesn’t seem like quite the impossible trial it was when you were tryin’ to struggle out of your uniform and into street clothes.  The streets are all empty—no wonder, the sun hasn’t even set yet.  It’s still light. 

You take a deep breath, shake out your fins, scrub your hands over your bleary eyes and start walking.

It’s a beautiful evening, really.  Your head clears out, and you fall into a rhythm like you do when you’re on border patrol; proceeding along, nice and even and not putting too much effort into any step and Fef is gonna be awake when you get back, she can yell at you for staying up too late and it’ll be fucking _wonderful._   You have just enough extra money to maybe buy a half-caegar piece of real, juicy fish, surprise her with it…

You’re lost in thought and just into the ring of smaller houses—middle class, the ones who are far enough above you to lord it over you but low enough to need to prove it—when someone shouts out behind you.

“Hey!”

Shit. 

Your good mood evaporates into tension and nerves so fast it makes your stomach heave.  You keep your head down and speed up but you can’t run, a running seadweller is basically asking to get brought down and arrested on the spot, and anyway running just encourages them.  You’re only three blocks from the palace.  You could turn back…duck in at the gate and wait for them to go away…

…But Fef is waitin’ for you, and you imagine the security camers swiveling around to see you, Captor’s voice crackling out of the speakers, _Hey, you forget something?_ And you grit your teeth and keep walking.

“Hey!”  The person who yelled at you has caught up while you were planning your next move; he ducks right in front of you and you back up a few steps automatically, baring your teeth.  He only stands there still for a second, but you're used to threats ( _everything is a threat_ ) and you take him in from horns to feet in that split second.  He’s got muscles, like he works to make them look that way not like he uses ‘em.  Pretty skinny.  Short, flattish horns, uneven teeth.  You can take him.  “Hey, fins, not often we get your kind of trash around here, huh?  Come on, give us a show!”  He puts his hands up to his cheeks, spreads his fingers out like fins and it takes everything you’ve got not to punch him.  _Always tape up no matter how tired you are always hide your fins no matter how much it hurts._  

And then there are more footsteps behind you and fuck, _fuck_ , he’s got friends, too—a  teal and something a little higher, turquoise maybe.  Hanging around with the midbloods to shake off the cerulean in his eyes. 

He’s big, bigger than you—can’t be much older, but warmbloods grow so much faster and you’ve been starvin’ most of your life.

“Get out of my way,” you say, very quiet, very controlled, and pin your fins as flat as they’ll go, just to get the message across nice and clear.  “Now.”

They laugh.  One of them shoves at you—you back up, and shit you’re in one of the tiny alleys off the main road, you’re out of sight and that’s the worst way to be.  Every inch of you is prickling , instincts screaming in your ear like sirens.  The teal is pacing to one side of you with her mouth fixed in a nasty grin—she’s missing teeth, looks a deal and a half tougher than the one who yelled after you.  The big turquoise is going to the other side, circling you like a scavenger-beast. 

“Come on,” repeats the ringleader—his eyes are golden-yellow, almost chocolate brown, but when he reaches for you they spark white for a second—psionics.  Fuck.  “Come on, show off a little, _highblood_!”

“I said, _get out of my way_!” you snap, and then swallow your pride, lower yourself enough to add a bitter, “…please.” On the end.  “I just want to get home, alright?”

“You roll over pretty nice, for a coldblood,” gloats the yellow, and _that_ is definitely your personal space and he is definitely intruding on it.  “You sure these are real?”

He reaches for your fins and before you even bother to think you snap your fangs at his hand and jerk away, growling.  They all hoot and jeer and close in, and your hands start to rise before you can think about it—you’ve got a fistkind abstratus, most coldbloods do these days just because weapons are too dangerous, too conspicuous, but you’re so much better with your rifle.  But the rifle’s not made for usin’ this close and you could _kill_ one of ‘em and then you would have to kill ‘em all and you’ve done it before but you don’t want to go down that road again. 

“There’s someone waitin’ for me at home and I need to get back,” you repeat, and missing your rifle you find yourself squaring up, lowering your horns, baring your teeth.  Their smiles fall a little—fuck yeah, just because you’re a coldblood doesn’t mean you can’t show a pretty mean snarl when you need to.  “I doubt you’d get that—but I guess if you’ve got a filled quadrant I just filled another one because _wow_ , instant pity for that poor sucker.” 

“Customers don’t count as quadrants,” sneers the yellow, condescending like he’s schoolfeeding a dumb wiggler, and hahaha, he’s not smiling anymore.  Douche.  Bet his quadrants _are_ empty.  “Don’t know who’d pay to pail that, but—”

“Wow, way to think with your bulge,” you snarl at him, sarcastic and sharp, “—because all of us have to sell ourselves to stay on top, right?  Who even said I filled a concupiscent quadrant, moron!”

“Yeah?”  Teal this time—she sniggers and you hate that her curved horns remind you of Fef’s.  She’s spits and slurs—her pupils are huge and drugged-looking.  “Oh, sho theshe are for your moirail’sh ushe only, right?  Why sho defenshive, cold shtuff?”

“—bet if you touch it he’ll start purring!”  The yellow-blood is laughing, and the teal reaches for your fins again and the adrenaline hotwiring your spine catches fire as her fingertips catch and drag down the seam where your left fin meets your face _YOU COULD TEAR HER WRIST OPEN BLEED HER OUT—_

You lash out and claw wildly, barely pulling it enough to avoid her eyes and, and your nails catch and drag and then there’s teal blood on your hands.  Someone hits you hard and you stagger and spit a tooth, but that’ll grow back—

The big turquoise hauls your arms up behind your back so hard you swear you feel one of them almost pop out of its socket.  You thrash, snapping, but you’re at the wrong angle and struggling _hurts_ , your arms are at the breaking point.  You’re trembling again, rage and terror and disgust and you snarl at them wordlessly, you’re going to _kill_ —

“Wow,” says yellow, “— _calm down._ ”

And he _paps your face_.

You are breathless with outrage, and half of your pan wants to go _berserk_ but the other half it is just this quiet, surprised, _oh_ , _his hands are warm_.  And for a second your trembling stops.

Then he pulls his hand away and pats you again, too hard, half a slap—your glasses are crooked on your nose and your cheek and your pride sting and they’re _laughing._   You hate them and you hate yourself for jerking after his hand like you’re trying to follow it, trying to keep him touching you when really all you want to do is tear his throat out with your teeth.  Someone’s hand presses back to your fin, holding on hard enough you don’t dare to jerk away but just gentle enough that it makes you cringe, how good it feels when he runs a calloused thumb across the tines.  The fear and disgust knot up with the pleasure and contentment and boil sickeningly in your guts. 

They’re talking, but you haven’t been listening.  You tune back in, struggle to think straight through the fog he’s piling into your mind, the hazy good feelings, _shhh, stop thinking, you’ll be just fine._

“—rile him up,” someone is saying and then the hand holding on to you clenches hard and tight and sudden and something _rips_ and there’s blood running down your face and you’re _screaming_.

They press you down onto the ground and with one hand he’s clawing _tearing twisting_ your fins and all you can do is sob and thrash and scream and someone bends over you and paps your face, shooshes in your ear—you think you’re going to throw up.  You _are_ throwin’ up, gagging and choking and you try to lash out but someone grabs you by the horn and _squeezes_ and all you can do is keen in sudden terror as your whole body goes vulnerable and limp.

“ _Shoosh_ ,” they hiss, and you want comfort, _need_ comfort but not from them not like this  with blood on your face and in your mouth and eyes, with them hurting you as they pretend to calm you and your body doesn’t know whether to sob or purr or scream and you can’t do any of them anyway and it’s not good not _right_ _don’t want—_

They calm you to a quivering, sobbing mess and then grab your other fin and _wrench_ and the noise you hear come out of you is terrible and shaky, this high, long helpless wail and you wanna black out, be done with this, not have this horrible, helpless calm forced on you anymore—

“Hey!”

Their hands leave your face but someone’s still holding onto your horn—you lie there still and don’t move.  Your whole body is filling up with this weird stillness—you can’t move, every inch of you is still there, still burning with pain but you can’t even seem to remember how moving worked before.  Everything is a blur.  Everything hurts.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing back there?  Get off him!” says the voice, and your fins are all torn and you’re shivering—you’ve got things hangin’ off your fins and they flick to get them off and you realize all that’s hangin’ off them is _themselves_ and you shudder all over and try to scream from it, from the fear and the horror of it, from the _agony_.

It comes out a cracked little whine, and no more.

They ain’t lettin’ go of you.  Someone draws a weapon, close enough you can smell the ozone through the smells of blood and bile and filth and sweat—the voice that stopped them is closer now, walking nearer you.  “Get off him, _now,”_ they growl, “—if you don’t take that hand off his horn I’m going to tear it off your wrist, I swear.”

The hand leaves.  You’re still frozen, limp, but you can breathe, the horrible helpless fear isn’t weighing down on you like an iron weight.  You hear yellow stand up, see him pull a wad of cash and then vanish out of your view, a blur.  “I’m his palemate, sir,” he says, and you want to scream, struggle, _deny it_ , but you’re still and silent.  “--you wouldn’t interrupt me in taking care of my moirail, would you?  He’s just a little upset right now, that’s all.”  When have the police ever turned down a bribe, just to help a seadweller?  He’s going to leave, he’s going to leave you to them and it’s all going to start again and you could _die_ here.

_You’re going to die here._

“ _Bullshit._ ”  There’s a crack, a yelp—yellow’s money flutters down to the ground and the others around you are suddenly getting up, tense.  “I’m giving you shitstains _one chance_ to put your weapons down and get your hands on the wall, got it?  I’m taking you in for rape and I would be _just fine_ adding ‘resisting arrest’ to the list.  For fuck’s sake, I’ve _got_ his palemate _right here!_ ”

Shit.  _Shit._

You can still barely move but you thrash and twist and manage to pitch over on your side—all you can see of the mouth of the alley is a brief flash of a tall, dark figure in some kind of coat with a hood.  The three who had you before are standing between you and him, weapons out.  You can’t see her there but you can barely see at all and then you pitch forward and your face is pressed into the ground; it smells of blood and bile and acid.  _“Fef—nnh…no, wh…_ ”

 _Crack_ , and yelling, and people running—sparks and fire, but it doesn’t matter because a pair of hands lifts you up so gently and her hands are so cold, so wonderful and cold.

“ _Eridan_ ,” Fef gasps over you, and it makes you shudder that she touches your face, but you go still and let her.  She needs this as much as you do, she needs this.  It’s not calming you down, but she needs to feel like she’s got something she can do, right?

Your fins start to fold up and you turn your face into her hand and let yourself whimper like a wiggler as the pain washes over you.

When you open your eyes again the dark figure is standing over her shoulder, and this close with Fef liftin’ your head for you and their hands off you, your brain manages to fit together what it should have known the instant you heard the voice from the mouth of the alley.

“… _Captor_ ,” you croak, and he looks down at you.  Not gloating, like you always imagined he would be if he caught you weak.  Not smiling or mocking.  Blank.  So very, very grim.  “ _hhh—wh…_ ”

“Your moirail showed up right at the palace looking for you,” he says, and his eyes flick to Fef, but she’s not listening to him.  “…you’re lucky she was brave enough to cross town, even _luckier_ I was watching the front gate right then, Ampora.  I was about to sign out for the night.  Miss Peixes—”

But you’re not listening, because Fef just trailed her hand across your cheek, feeling you out in the darkness like a blind woman, and her fingers just touched the snapped tines and shredded flesh of your fin.  You make a horrible, wailing, keening sound and your whole body thrashes fitfully out of your control; she gasps and pulls her hands away.  She starts to shift you off her lap and you twitch, tryin’ to reach up and cling to her, but she doesn’t let you go entirely; she lays you in a patch of filtered sunset light and you feel the warmth on your ruined fins and know the tiny noise of horror she makes is because she sees the damage in its entirety.

She raises her head with a horrible noise, half a sob, half a snarl, and she starts to get to her feet.

“ _I’m going to kill them,_ ” she growls, and a jolt of panic lances up your spine and hotwires your arm.  You buck up off the ground, grab for her and catch one thin, strong-as-steel arm with weak fingers.  She could tug out of your grip without even pulling, but she stops, staring down at you.  “—Eridan—”

“ _C’n…l’you do that,”_ you gasp, and tug weakly on her arm.  “You’re…better’n…that…Fef.  Don’t…” and it comes out horrible and tiny and weak because you’re _scared_ , goddammit, you feel like you’re dying and it’d be welcome. “… _don’t leave me…”_

She makes a tiny sobbing sound and collapses back down to her knees.  She strokes your hair—you flinch as she goes near your horns and she avoids them after that, scruffing at the nape of your neck and stroking your cheekbones and forehead over and over again.  Captor is still looking down at you, and you should be embarrassed, but he’s just staring, like he’s seen something horrible, something that makes him sick.

It takes you a long second to realize that that sickening thing is you.

“Holy shit,” he says, like he doesn’t realize he’s saying it, distant.  His eyes are sparking, his horns have little arcs of lightning between them.  He’s grinding his teeth around the words.  “…they’re going to pay.  _They’re going to pay for this._ ” 

He comes up next to Fef, leaning over your head; bends down so you can see his face.  Everything is blurry and too bright, like your eyes can’t adjust, everything hurts. 

“We’re taking you back to the palace,” he says, and his voice is liquid.  “…you want me to put you under, ED?”

 _ED._   Stupid tightass yellowblood and his stupid duality kink. 

You close your eyes and nod, and the last thing you hear is the soft _click_ of his fingers, the last thing you feel is your moirail’s hand on your hair.

\--

When you wake up it’s dim and warm, and your blanket feels unbelievably soft and nice.  You roll over on blurry instinct, searching for the glowing digits of your alarm clock—no.  No wait, what do the warmbloods call it, you swore you were gonna clean up how you talked, draw less attention, but their name for it is so fuckin’ _long_ and your head is poundin’ and fuzzy.

You spend almost five minutes trying to sort out the warmblood word for alarm clock before you realize yours isn’t there.  It’s _not there_ and you feel rested which means you slept for too long and you can’t afford to lose the pay for the time you missed this is going to mess up your perfect record and _what if they kick you out Fef has that eye infection that needs medicine and the cold season is coming and you haven’t bought warm clothes for her yet and they’re going to dock your pay—_

A pair of hot hands grab you by the shoulders and pushes you back down as you struggle with limbs that feel made out of lead.  “Whoa!” Someone is saying, “Whoa hey, you’re not getting up yet.  Back in bed.”

You blink and stare—everything is blurry without your glasses, but the fog of grey and red and blue above you leans down and comes into something like focus—Captor blinks down at you, frowning.  He pushes you a little; you topple back over, weak as a newly hatched cluckbeast, sprawling on the bed.  You barely managed to lift yourself up off the bed a few inches and you’re panting like you just sprinted the length of the palace.

“You’re on sick pay,” says Captor, and oh.  You said all that out loud, _great._   “And we’ve got better medicine for her here than you’d ever be able to afford no matter how much you overworked yourself, so lie down and _shut up_.”

A cool hand presses to your too-hot forehead and you loll your head to one side and see a face that is a lot more familiar.

“ _Fef_ ,” you croak, and she presses her cold little hands all over your burning face—god that feels so good.  She avoids your fins and your horns and you are horribly grateful for that for reasons you aren’t ready to remember just yet.  Your fins are dull and heavy and you can’t seem to find them or move them, like they’re just…

… _gone._  

_What if your fins are gone._

You lurch upright again instantly, this time lookin’ for a mirror, and Fef’s hands and Captor’s powers instantly push you back down again—you thrash a little, but when the first jolt of terror wears off there’s nothing to replace it, no energy in you anywhere. 

“Fucking hell, _stay down,_ you workaholic asshole,” says Captor, and any other time that would piss you off— _oh that’s rich, comin’ from the guy who has more money than he’ll every know what to do with and_ still _works exactly an hour later than you just to be spiteful—_ but you still can’t feel your fins and you are too busy freakin’ the fuck out.  “What’s even the matter this time?!”

“Fins—!”  You rasp, hoarse and breathless—it comes out a squeaky croak, your throat is killin’ you.  “— _my—fins—_?!”

“They’re just numb!” Fef takes one of your hands.  You didn’t realize you were trembling.  “Shhh, _shhh._ You’re just fine, you’re safe.” She smiles, and it’s a little too bright, like her eyes.  Like she’s trying not to cry.  “…you’ll…you’ll be able to get those fin piercings you always wanted now, heh…”

Heh.  Yeah.  ( _oh god oh god what did they do what have they done all in tatters_ ) You always wanted some hoops ( _it hurt oh god it hurt so bad gonna throw up oh_ fuck _)_ you could never afford a sterile piercing or the gold hoops you always wanted ( _fins horns face get them off why were they touching how dare they it hurts help it hurts_ ) but yeah, even with cheap iron ones that should look pretty badass.

“…neat.” you say blankly, and then burst into tears.

By the time Fef gets you calmed down outta your hysterics (Captor at least had the basic decency to leave for that part, the heinous asshole) you feel like you been run over by something huge and heavy and your fins are startin’ to throb and ache under their bandages.  It’s like bein’ a wrung-out sponge.  Fef kisses your forehead and lays you back down, all gently like she thinks you’ll break—presses a button and the next thing there’s somethin’ heavy and warm takin’ up residence in your skull and your fins ain’t even a concern anymore.

You sleep.

A few hours later you’re awake again, shaking all over, and Fef is gone.

The room is silent.  You can’t remember what you were dreaming about—it’s all a blur of anticipation and fear and it takes all your energy to haul yourself onto your side a little and clutch at your stomach.  At least if you puke now it’ll be all over the bed instead of all over yourself, and you’re not gonna choke to death on your own bile.  That would be the most fuckin’ ignominious thing. 

You don’t know how long you lie there for, breathin’ deep and shakin’ and tryin’ not to throw up or cry or breathe too hard, but after a long, long time when your heart has almost settled down and your breathing is evened out, the door clicks open.

Immediately you’re back in full panic mode, but when you start to thrash around something beeps and more of that fuzzy heat floods your brain—not enough to knock you out, but enough to make you flop back, dizzy and soft around the edges like you’re dissolving in water. 

Oh.  It’s Makara.

He’s wearing a really worn out shirt and a pair of ratty pants that you gotta think he kept from his time on the streets, and his hair is unbrushed and in his eyes.  He looks like he just woke up too, and he kind of waves at you a little.  “Hey,” he says, and settles himself down next to the table you’re laid on.  His eyes are purple, and somehow looking at them makes you feel a little bit better about having him there, so you focus on that deep, blue-tinted purple.  He doesn’t say anything more—doesn’t even watch you for long, just settles down there and pulls out his ratty notebook and starts writing.

“You need somethin’, sir?” you mumble eventually, and he glances up.

“Me?”

You nod, weak—he laughs.  “Gamzee, motherfucker,” he tells you, and flips a page.  “I ain’t actually anybody important, I just got a few as are special to me, y’dig?”

God, you are not equipped to deal with his way of talking right now.  You give it a shot anyway.

“…but y…y’r not a normal purple,” you point out foggily.  “No drugs now.  Not starving.  S’all…” you can’t think of the words.  Tired.  “…emperor’s matesprit’s a pretty…pretty big deal.”

He jumps and blinks at you, and oh.  Hey.  So that’s what it looks like when constantly calm Gamzee Makara is nervous. 

…you just said that out loud.

You just said the biggest secret you’ve got _out loud_ to one of the people closest to it and he’s staring at you like he’s not sure whether to be scared of you or threaten to break your legs if you tell, _fuck._

 _“…_ uh,” you say stupidly, and he leans closer, a little too close.  His eyes are very, very sharp all of a sudden.

“…you haven’t told nobody, right?” he says, rushed and quiet.  “You can’t tell motherfucking _anybody_.  If they think they got proof they’ll ask him again and he’ll motherfucking _admit_ it and he’ll tell them all and me, I’m nobody, I can hide in here, but they’d—he—”

He trails off, chewing on his lip, staring at you.  You blink at him for a long, long second before you realize he’s waiting for an answer and getting jumpier by the second.  That’s why they’re not telling anybody?  The emperor would tell them but he… _asked him not to_?

…because he knows it would make trouble.  For the emperor.  Holy shit. 

“No,” you get out eventually.  “…no, uh…I’m good at keepin’ my trap shut, sir—uh. G-gamzee.  You gotta be, when you got fins on your face and people got plenty cause to hate you already.  I mean.  I mouth off at people I shouldn’t sometimes, but not stuff I should keep secret, just—”

He holds up a hand.

“Yeah,” he says, and he rubs a big, bony hand over his face, relieved. “I got it, bro.”

He’s seriously going to take your word for it. 

He’s going to take your _word_ for it?

You do not get this guy at all.

“Well since we’re talkin’ about my matesprit who ain’t the emperor,” he says, and stretches, hauling himself up onto this feet again.  Shit he’s tall.  Like, you’re plenty tall, but he’s gonna be freakishly huge.  “…I’m gonna go see what he’s up to.  See if he’s done with his palemate, like maybe he—”

“…if you make a ‘pail’-mate joke,” you interrupt weakly, “…I’m gonna spontaneously hemorrhage and get purple blood all over everything, I swear to god.  Nobody thinks that joke is funny.”

He laughs and turns toward the door.  “—I’ll shut up then!  You get your heal on, motherfucker.  You got my palemate all riled up on himself worrying.”

Oh. 

Oh, okay.  The presence of a solid reason for him to come down here is comforting, even if it hurts in the little part of you that whispers _because nobody’s going to come visit you just to visit you_.  Hell, he may not have come to visit for your sake, but the Second Sufferer is worrying about you and that is still bizarre and great and kind of terrifying.  You crack a half-grin.  “—so that’s why you showed up down here.  I was wonderin’.”

He looks at you…surprised?  He looks surprised. 

“I’m not here on Karkat’s account,” he says.  “Just here to hang out.  For serious.”

“I—” Why doesn’t the world make sense, what the fuck is your life?  “…I…you…what?  _Why_?”

“…because I been bandaged up and hurting and waiting for it to get better,” he says, and he smiles, all big, crooked fangs and bones.  Tired.  “…nobody showed for me, way back then.  It fucking sucked, bro.”  He waves a knobbly hand.  “Don’t suffer in silence.”

“I—yeah,” you manage weakly, and then he’s gone again.

You lie back on the bed and hate yourself and cry a little more for no reason except you want to and it feels right, and at some point you drift off to sleep again.

You don’t really have a way of tellin’ where you are or how long you’ve been there, but you think it’s the next night by the time people come back in to look at you.  They bring Captor and Fef back in with them, and a lot a papers and charts and notes and more things to pump into your blood that wake you up a little bit from the numb kinda coma that you’ve been in so much recently.  You hadn’t realized how far under you were, but sat up with your glasses on and your gills bare to the air and the drugs wearin’ off and drainin’ the fog outta your head it’s like being hatched all over again. 

There are questions—quiet, tactful, soft-spoken questions, to Fef, to Captor, not to you.  You sit there hatin’ everything, and every so often one a them tries to steer it back to you but it doesn’t really matter because you’re in a stubborn pissy mood now and you don’t want to answer questions to them anyway, fuck them.  So they go back to askin’ questions to Fef and Captor, and you…uh…sulk.  Basically.  You sulk.

And then the door opens behind you and the little polite-question people look up and scatter like little fish in front of a big shark.  A second later, you see why.  The doctorturer—fuck, no, doctor, the emperor doesn’t like to cultivate the idea his medical staff bein’ sadistic murderers—the doctor is a huge oliveblood, looks like she could be a ruffiannihilator at the drop of a hat, big beefy arms the size of your head and horns made for chargin’ things.  She looks you up and down and you find yourself tryin’ to sit up straight automatically. 

“So you’re Ampora,” she says, and advances on the bed.  “Alright then—”

The door that just shut behind all the little polite-question trolls opens again, and you are spared for a second as ruffiannihidoctor turns away and frowns at the door instead.  Captor leaves his place slouching against the wall and vanishes behind you to go talk to the person in the doorway—you cock your head a little and listen.  “… _as soon as I heard,_ ” someone is saying quietly, “… _away on business—right at the palace’s front door—what quadrant…?_ ”

You are suddenly, blazingly angry.  Sick of being talked over, being asked delicate, probing little questions.  “Pale!”  You snap, and hear the voices in the doorway cut off.  You don’t turn around.  “In case anybody was thinkin’ a askin’ me instead of goin’ over my head like I’m some kinda delicate fuckin’ flower!”

The doctorturer—doctor, the _doctor_ —is looking over your head and the look on her face would be kinda hilarious if you weren’t so angry.  “ _What_?” You snap at her, and it comes out ‘w-what’, you’re that angry.

Then you turn around, and try to jump up and stand at attention so fast you manage a full second standing up straight before your legs go out from under you.

Captor catches your body in a net of sparks.  Fef catches one of your arms.

The Emperor catches the other.

He helps you back up onto the table and then steps back and looks at you, right up close and really— _there_ , big brown eyes and fuckin’ enormous horns and gold embroidery less than a foot from you, _fuck_.  Pity him or not (you choose _not_ , holy shit, those are two quadrant-mates you don’t want to mess with) he’s actually really good-lookin’, agh. 

“I—wh—you—”  You’re babblin’.  The emperor is smiling, like he’s nervous of you— _you_.  What the fuck is going on?  “Why—?”

“Why are we here?”

You turn around a little and oh look, it’s Makara—Gamzee—back again, standing at his palemate’s shoulder like a scrawny, wild-haired sentinel.  The Second Sufferer is looking at you and it takes you a couple long seconds to realize that he was aimin’ that at you.  Oh.  Yeah, that was what you were gonna ask.  Why are you here.  Sounds about right.  You nod.

“Because there’s nobody in this palace we don’t bring here on purpose,” says Vantas, and the emperor nods.  “We value our employees, okay, and we’re spending massive amounts of time and money trying to encourage people to be decent to each other and now one of our hardest-working, up and coming officers gets attacked right outside the palace?  Fuck, of course we’re here.”

“Not that I can stay very long,” says the emperor sheepishly, like that’s a thing he should be sorry about.  “I have to go and talk to some people from the border planets in a few minutes, but I wanted to make sure you were alright.  You’ve been, um…you’ve been very helpful.  You really are a credit to the empire.”

Oh god, oh god, your eyes are prickling, are you crying you’re _crying_ , _FUCK._ The emperor makes a sad little noise and kind of holds his hands up, like he’s trying to reassure you that he’s not gonna hurt you, Gamzee looks worried, Vantas looks tense, Captor is frowning and sparking, and you try to straighten up and stop crying and find that you absolutely fucking _can’t_.

“Oh my god,” says the Emperor, “Oh no, uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…shit, I’m sorry.”

“No,” you manage, and then your voice cracks and wobbles.  “No _I’m_ sorry, I’m—I just—disgraceful, I—oh god, I’m sorry—”

Feferi grabs a hold of you and pulls you to her chest, hiding your face in her shoulder.  You bury your face in the coolness of her skin and shudder uncontrollably, trying to force yourself back under control—it’s not working.  Everything is so horrible and so wonderful both at the same time and you’re stainin’ Fef’s expensive new dress but she holds on to you like it doesn’t matter.

_“They’re just people, Eridan,”_ she whispers, and rocks you back and forth a little—she sounds like she’s about to cry too.  “ _Just people, good people.  Shhh._ Shooosh.  You’re working yourself up again.”

“I think we’re upsetting him,” says the Emperor’s voice, and you want to reassure him you don’t mind at all but he doesn’t sound upset with you and you don’t want to show your face, you’re so ugly and gross and your face is all purple from crying.  “We should let him rest, I think.  If he has anything to say, or to ask…?”

“You’ll have to bully him into it,” says Vantas firmly.  “Being someone’s moirail isn’t just taking care of the big psychotic breakdown fuckery, it’s dealing with them when they’re being horrible fucking stubborn little shits.”  (“Hey,” says Makara, but he doesn’t sound all that upset.)  “If he has questions, _make_ him come and ask us.  Okay?  We’ll leave it in your hands.”

“Thank you,” says Fef, and she sounds strong.  You start to try to sit up—she holds you there and pets your hair and yeah, never mind, you’re staying here where it’s cool and dark.  God, you love her so much… “I’ll take care of it.”

“We’ll get out of your way,” says Vantas.  “Sollux, I need to talk to you.”

A groan.  “KK—”

“ _Sollux._ ”

He sounds pissed.  Captor doesn’t argue again—footsteps, and then quiet. 

“…that’s never happened before,” says the doctor dryly, and you sit up in sudden shock and almost laugh.  She cracks half a grin and then goes back to being grim and all business.  “You can sit up.”  It’s a statement, not a question.  You nod and pull yourself up—the tears have slacked off now that the emperor and his entourage aren’t here to extend your humiliation and shame and gratitude.  Your face is still leakin’ and gross, but you sniff hard and wipe your cheeks off and manage to look her in the eyes.  You are rewarded with a firm nod.

“Credit to the empire,” Feferi giggles in your ear, and your face goes purple. 

“Fef…”

“One of our hardest-working…”

“ _Fef_ , c’mon…”

“Up and coming—”

You elbow her in the gills—she huffs and giggles, ruffling your hair.  The doctor tolerates this for several seconds, and then she claps her hands sharply and says, “…Okay.  Time to do my job.”

She has you get up—Fef has to help you when it becomes clear that you’re not going to be able to stand on your own feet at all.  She has you push down on her hands, which you can’t, push in all directions against her with your arms and legs, which you can’t, and it’s mortifyin’ and terrible.

You slump on the table afterwards, panting even though you barely did a thing, and she frowns down at her clipboard, checks a few things off, and then looks up at you and says firmly, “…perfectly normal.”

You gape at her.  She glares back.  She’s definitely not lyin’ to make you feel better.  Half of you is panicking, horrified, at the thought they’ve done some sort of real actual damage to you, that you’re _broken_ somehow.  The other half is just pathetically glad to hear those words.  _Normal._   Whatever this is, it’s no mystery, somebody knows what’s happened to you.

“I’m going to make a wild leap of logic and guess someone set off your submission reflex,” she says, brutally blunt, and it hurts but it’s also so good the way she looks right at you and asks questions without dancing around them.  Hurts so good. Ahahaha.  “Your horns, probably.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you say, because that’s easy to say.  Fef looks like she wants to jump in, but you squeeze her hand and she bites her lip and doesn’t object.

“You were trying to fight them off at that point?”

“…they were clawin’ up my fins, ma’am.”  The words choke out, but they’re almost even. “Woulda been pretty hard not to fight.”   Her eyes flick from you to the way Fef winces, and she nods slowly.

“At least they only tried a single quadrant,” she says, and checks something off on her chart.  “No need for a disease screen then.”

Oh god.  The thought makes you twitch and shudder—the idea that maybe one of them would want to take it red or black while the yellow-blood forced you pale was never one that crossed your mind, and you try to forget it again as quickly as possible.  _Fuck_ , FUCK.

“They turned on your combat instincts and forced your submission reflex at the same time,” the olive-blood informs you, and you snap out of it a little to listen.  “Your body isn’t made to do that, so it shut down.  It’s called Diamantic Shock and if you just lie still it should wear off in a matter of weeks.”

 _Weeks._   You take a few deep breaths.  It doesn’t help much.

“…any way to cut that down, ma’am?”

“You have a pitchmate?”

Fuck.

“…no.”

“You feel like throwing yourself off tall buildings or joining a fight club?”

Ugh, _fuck._

“No.”

“Then no.”  She clips her pen to the board and frowns at you.  “…it would speed up recovery if you could get those fight or flight hormones going again.  A bit of pain is a good jolt.  A kismesis is a better one.  If you start hurting yourself I will hunt you down.  Are we clear?”

“Crystal clear, ma’am,” you say weakly, because really, what else are you going to say?

She nods, turns on her heel, and is gone out the door again in a swirl of ominous white coat.

You sit there in silence with Fef for a little while, and then when you can finally be sure there’s nobody at the door and nobody about to come in you slump back on her and sigh, looking around the empty room.  It’s more of a respite block than a medical block of some kind.  There’s a standing clothes chamber in the corner.  A desk in the other with a husktop sitting open on it—holy shit are you supposed to _use_ that thing?  It’s probably worth more than your apartment.  Another door that looks like it leads to an ablution chamber and a load gaper—oh and there’s a fridge!  Thermal hull.  There’s a thermal hull.  You may or may not start to drool at the first thought of getting something edible in your mouth, and to keep yourself from hauling yourself up to stagger over and stuff your face like an imbecile you look over at Fef instead.  She’s watchin’ you with that horribly amazing tenderness in her eyes and you have to swallow hard to form words.

“…so what’s the news?” you ask, and she makes a surprised little noise and sits up suddenly straight.

“—that’s right, I forgot to tell you!”  She exclaims, and giggles.  “—Eridan you won’t believe this, but—the emperor says, since you have to cross such a dangerous part of town to get back to our apartment and you’re valuable to the empire and everyfin…” She clears her throat and then finishes, almost calm but shakin’ with glee.  “…he’s set us up a place _here_!  We’re going to live in the _palace!_ ”

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh god.

“Holy shit,” you say, and imagine Fef not bein’ left in an empty apartment with nobody to watch her back if she has to fight someone off.  Imagine you bein’ able to work a little longer and then just walk through the palace to one of the huge, empty rooms and an actual soft couch and actual sopor patches that work and aren’t half-rotted.  You can be happy.  _She can be happy_.  “Holy _shit._ ”

“I _know!_ ”

“Oh my god!”

“I know!”

You’re laughing, breathless—she holds on to you and both of you are sort of laughing and crying and horrible but god, even if this is too good to be true until it falls through you are taking it one amazing second at a time.  And then you’re…crying again, because you remember what you did to have this, you remember what was done and you don’t want to bring Fef down when she’s so happy but you’re retching and then laughing and then crying and she has to hold you and shoosh you all over again, god, how many times are you going to end up shaking and sick before you’re _normal_?

She drugs you up again and kisses your forehead as you fall back into the bed.  She even takes your glasses off for you, guides your hand to where they are on the side table so you’ll know and then wraps you up in blankets and leaves you to sink back down and sleep like the dead.

(You blink awake in the middle of the day shaking and sweating and there’s a hot hand on your clammy forehead, pressing your hands firmly back down as you try to claw at yourself and _get them off get the hands off_ — _shut up you idiot_ , says a voice that might almost be just in your head.  _Shut up and lie back down.  I’m not letting anybody hurt you again.  Okay?  You’re gonna be fine._ )

(click)

You drift in and out of a sort of healing coma after that, until finally one day the people in white coats come back and unhook some of the pipes and wires that have been on you.  They cut your bandages, and the air on your fins stings for a second before it settles back down and oh god, they can move and flick and twitch and you fan and fold them once or twice even though it aches, just to feel them work.  Fuck, that’s amazing. 

They all back out after that, takin’ their equipment and their smell like chemicals with ‘em, and you are left sitting in this respite block that is twice as big and maybe ten times more expensively furnished than your entire floor of the apartment hivestem you were livin’ in. 

The very first thing you do is stagger into the ablution block and stare at yourself in the mirror.

Your fins are so much better than you were expectin’.  The tines are delicate, but they heal fast; they’re only slightly crooked in one or two places, hardly a sign they were crumpled up and snapped.  The membranes are seamed with miniscule stitches, barely swollen anymore—in one or two places there are rips big enough they couldn’t sew them shut without crinklin’ and warpin’ your fins, and those places are left neat little holes.  Fef’s right, you can put hoops through those.  Heh.  The missing teeth are coming back in, the big bruise that was all over your left eye is almost gone…

You look in the mirror and see an almost decent troll.

After that, there’s clothes.  Your clothes are nowhere to be found, but there’s a closet of stuff in the corner that’s perfectly your size and you pull out an absolutely fuckin’ gorgeous sweater with your sign worked into the front, _made for you_ , holy shit, and oh god, they must have talked to Fef because there’s a whole set of silky scarves in purple, in blue, in black and white.

You sit there and cry in front of the closet for a while, and it’s _stupid_ , frivolous, it’s fuckin’ _fashion_ and who ever heard of a seatroll with the time to bother or the energy to care about fashion but you just touch the soft fabric and run it through your fingers and kind of sob, really careful not to get stains on the scarf that’s clutched in your hands. 

When you’re finally done you go hunting through the clothes and very carefully pick one a those amazing beautiful black sweaters and a blue striped scarf and pants that actually fit.

****

And then, feeling a lot more like an actual troll again, you haul yourself over to the desk in the other corner to boot up the husktop. 

When you finally sign back on to a computer hub, your mood drops like a stone.  Your story is still on front pages.  The story is vague, the pictures are blurry.

The comments are sharp as knives.

_Didn’t fuck him doesn’t count, pale rape isn’t even a thing, what the fuck, who cares, stop wasting feed on cold-bloods, first the purple whore and now this, like anybody else would pap that, he was out at night with his fins out, if he didn’t want them touched he should’ve covered them, he was asking for it…_

You stare at the screen, numb and distant.  It doesn’t even hurt.  You just…can’t believe what you’re reading.  People who think you did It for attention, who think it didn’t happen at all, who wish they’d been there…

The comment on the top flickers, and changes.  The anonymous icon reloads as a blurry mugshot: at the bottom of the comment, a neat little caption appears; _Trevyk Hartel, Teal, six sweeps._ First that comment, then all of them, name, blood color, age, address and chat handle. 

A new comment appears at the top of the list, and sticks there.  _Attentiion, 2cum of the iimperiial network!  Congratulatiion2, you ju2t earned your2elve2 exclu2iive 2pot2 on the iimperiial watch lii2t for blood-related hate criime2 and are under 2u2pii2ciion of viiolatiing the Treatii2e of Hii2toriical Autodiidactiion._

_That’2 what you get for thiinkiing you can be douchebag2 ju2t becau2e you’re anon._

_Watch your a22e22._

You are horribly, shamefully grateful.

You are horribly, furiously ashamed.    You could have _dealt_ with it, you didn’t need him to _protect_ you like that, ward them off for you, shame them when it was you they were goin’ after.  If you were pitch, maybe that would be even a little okay, maybe even kind of romantic in a _you can’t fight him he’s mine to fight_ kinda way, but you ain’t and you aren’t gonna be ever because for god’s sake your blood colors are practically complementary. 

It hurts. 

You shut off your computer and stumble back to the couch, plaster two sopor patches onto your arm under your sweater and bury your face in your pillow, hoping to whatever has ever sent you a stroke of good luck that you’re not going to dream. 

( _you dream you’re a prince and there’s a queen by your side and you wear your fins like a crown instead of a curse and there’s gold on your fingers and)_ you wake up crying in the middle of the day for some reason you can’t remember, turn over, and go back to sleep.

\--

Three weeks later you are about as a third as strong as you ever were, you’re doin’ your patrols on power a pure stubbornness with a stubbly new streak of purple in your shaved hair, Captor is alternately breathin’ over your shoulder and makin’ big shiny sparky baby-barkbeast eyes at your moirail, and you are fuckin’ sick of everything.

Today the entertainment of the hour was someone showin’ up and tryin’ to splatter Gam’s head across the room and you didn’t even manage to bring him down until the backup showed.  Fuckin’ embarrassin’, it’s like bein’ made of wet tissues.  So you’re haulin’ your ass back across the palace to your moirail’s lovin’ paps, sore and really fuckin’ tired and with a headache the size of Alternia, and the last thing you need is for a tall, thin figure to swing out of a doorway as you pass and fall into step behind you.

“Heard you need a kismesis,”lisps Captor.

Oh, that’s rich, him raggin’ on you about unfilled quadrants.  At least you’ve _got_ one. 

“I’m not discussin’ this with you,” you snap back, and then add, bitter and not at all professional on the end, “… _sir._ ”

You start walkin’ again, and you don’t hear his footsteps comin’ after you so _maybe—_

You come to a scrambling, undignified halt, yelping in alarm, as he drops smoothly down in front of you, upside-down, hanging in a cocoon of red and blue sparks.

“Heard you need a kismesis,” he repeats, and flips down onto his feet again as you start to shove past him.  “—no you don’t, get back here.”

“I’m tryin’ to do my job,” you say pointedly, and straighten your jacket a little—your badge gleams.  “I’m still on duty.”

“You’re always ‘doin’ your job’,” he says, and he imitates your voice insultingly well, even the trace of your accent.  You bristle.  “Technically I’m your boss, so talking to me _is_ doing your job.  So, do your job why don’t you, ED?”

Oh god you loathe him.  _Platonically_.  Of course platonically, anything else would be stupid.

“ _Yes sir_ ,” you grit out, and stand at attention because hell if he’s makin’ this your job, _you’re_ making this your job.

He looks surprised.  “ _That’s_ what gets you?”  He looks incredulous, _yeah, you’ve never had to dig food scraps out of trash before, have you?  Never been turned down for no reason or replaced by some warmer-blooded asswipe who can’t find his nook with both hands?_

“This job is _kind of_ important to me,” you snap, and it comes out dripping vitriol and spite and you don’t really give a fuck.  “I’m takin’ care of me _and_ my moirail, I ain’t had a job this solid in sweeps and when I get kicked out every single hundredth-caegar I’ve earned is gonna keep us in warm clothes for the 12 th perigee and keep food on the table, okay?!”  _(Fef had curled up when it got cold and gone still, heart pumping so slowly, barely breathing and you’d gone to work and brought back the best food you could get, woke her up a little every night to trickle water into her, you’d almost starved but you’re one of a thousand and she’s one in a billion.)_

“…who says you’re getting kicked out?”

You jump a little and he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to sort you out, figure out what you are. 

“We’re not going to kick you out,” he says, and for some reason the intense way he’s lookin’ at you makes your breath come fast and shallow.  You gotta get out of here.  You need your moirail, you need to be alone—you feel like you’re coming up on something, like you’re going to explode and you have no idea whether you’re going to go for his throat or…

…you don’t know what the alternative is.  But you can feel it loomin’ and it’s making your heart pound in your throat.

“That’s nice,” you say, rougher than you mean to, and turn your face away so you don’t have to look at him lookin’ at you.  “…we done here, Captor— _sir_?”

He groans.  “ _Sollux_ ,” he tells you, and it’s an order.  “…only _douchebags_ like being called by their last names, _Ampora._ ”

Oh, _fuck_ him.  “ _Eridan_ ,” you snap back, “—only douchebags assume shit about people ‘cause of what they like to be called and then call them that anyway.”

He sniggers at that, this sharp little horrible sound, and your fins burn and flick.  Still stinging.  You need pills.  You need to not deal with Captor—Sollux, ugh—right now.  God.

“You got it, ED,” he says, and he steps up a little.  Your fully healthy and recently increased personal space pings at you, but stepping back would be like losing a little battle and you stand your ground.

He seems to notice how twitchy it’s making you, having him closer.  His obnoxious smile falls a little.  He steps back.

“…was there a point to this _lovely_ encounter, Sol?”  You inquire acidly, and celebrate a little inside over the look on his face. 

“ _Sollux,_ ” he corrects you.

“Then stop callin’ me ED.”

“ _Hell_ no.”

“Then basically fuck you.”

He smirks again, and oh he’s going to do the thing, isn’t that cute.  You could almost mouth along when he lisps, “—we haven’t even had a date yet, bit forward, don’t you—?”

Oh god, he thinks he’s such a hotshot and he has no fuckin’ clue what he’s doin’.  (Not that you’ve got a ton of experience, you’re too proud still to go home with anyone who hits on you just ‘cause they want to take a set of fins and gills for a run, but still.)  You’ve got the upper hand, and it feels basically illegally good to be in a position of power for once.

“You wanna stop before you embarrass yourself even more,” you cut him off. “—that’s the stalest line anybody’s ever used on anybody in the history a awkward black passes.”

His expression doesn’t show any change, but his cheeks go kind of ashy yellow.  Score. 

“Oh, _I’m_ the one who’s flirting black—”

“Makin’ a mockery of it anyway, like we’d ever end up pitch with you _standin’ over me_ all the time, showin’ off!”

He sputters.  “What the fuck, what are you talking about?!  I’m trying to keep you from _killing_ yourself here—”

“—rubbin’ it in my face you’re a million times _smarter_ than me, _richer_ —”

“—pretend you’ve got this under control when you’re just tearing yourself down by being a _moron—_ ”

“— _important_ than me and I’m so fucking _sick_ of you always—”

“—always _pushing_ , ED—”

“Stop callin’ me that!”

“Why should I?  We should be getting more familiar with each other!”  He smirks at you, showing all his horrible teeth.  “…we’re at quadrant corners now.  You should congratulate your moirail, by the way!  _ED_.”

You knew it was comin’, knew they’d been dancing around flushed for ages and ages, but it still stings and the stupid nickname grates on your raw nerves. You’re stepping up before you have time to think about it, tossing your horns and baring your teeth, fins all snapping out to full spread--and he _mirrors_ , he steps up and twists his head and for a second you think you’re actually going to lock horns.  His sparks flare out like your fins did, this glittering halo that glints off his eyes and his fangs and _whoa._

 _Whoa_ , this is looking way too much like an honest-to-god threat display, back up.

You do.  You back up—someone’s got to be the bigger troll and quit playing pitch cluckbeast like six-sweep-old brats, and it might as well be you.  You break eye contact, flatten your fins and pull back your horns.

“…You mind not flirtin’ _quite_ so much,” you say, and it comes out a little more sincere than you intended it to, “…I’m on duty.”

Sol reaches out and snags the badge off your chest, pitches it over his shoulder and  _looms_  at you.

“… _now you’re_ off- _duty,_ ” he says, really close,  _really_  quiet, and you paid  _three weeks’ fuckin’ pay for that badge, that insufferable_ prick!

You do the only obvious thing, and punch him in the mouth.

With your mouth.

And kind of maybe your tongue.

He makes a lot of confused noises and flails at you for a second before he seems to get what’s going on—nerd.  You bite him for that, and _that_ seems to get him back in the swing of things.  His sparks sting on your cheeks and he uses his height to his advantage and kisses you back like it’s a competition.

Well you have no idea how to win, but you’re sure as hell not going to _lose_.

“You neurotic little _shit_ ,” you hiss at him when he pulls away, and fuck, you hate that extra few inches he has on you.  (Suddenly all the times you’ve thought that over the past sweep and a half make so much more sense, so much sense— _I hate, I hate, I hate_ —you’ve been telling yourself how much you hated him ever since you started to work with him and it’s like only just now are things sliding into place.  “What the fuck is wrong with your tongue?!”

He sticks it out and wiggles it at you; it’s got a split down the middle like a slither-beast and he’s wiggling the tips at you separately good god that’s _bizarre_.  And you thought you were the strange one, with your fins and gills and the purple streak in your hair. 

…you don’t have to cross town anymore.  You should grow your hair back out, now that you don’t have to pay to dye it.

You’re so suddenly enamored of that thought you forget to be mad for a second, and it only occurs to you when he starts laughin’ at you that he probably thinks the gleeful look on your face is pertainin’ to kissin’ someone with a freaky split tongue.  Just to disabuse him of that notion, you kick him hard in the shin.

The way he doubles over and swears is really the best thing you have ever felt in your life.  You’re going to have to do that more often.

“Freak,” you inform the top of his head as he groans—ha, standard issue steel-toed boots.  You hope you didn’t break his leg, that would kind of suck as far as black making out goes.  Damaging your partner in the long term is a thing some trolls go in for, but if you damage someone and then hate them for bein’ weak enough to damage that’s the start of a slippery slide into some real nasty shit…

You are abruptly distracted from the thought by him body-checking you into the wall and getting a scrawny arm against your throat, tilting your face up towards him so he can kiss you again.  His ridiculous fangs keep getting in the way—it’s sloppy and nasty and toothy and _awesome_ —until a second later when he grabs you by the upper arms and _oh fuck him_ he _lifts you off the ground_ to kiss you, holding you up with his psionics with your feet dangling off the ground.  You yelp and cling at him entirely on instinct and get one of those _haha I win_ sniggers in your ear.

And then his mouth touches your fin and you flinch right out of his arms and punch him in the face.

He staggers back.  You drop hard onto your feet and hit the wall with a jolt that shakes the breath out of you.

For a second, neither of you moves.  Both of you are just slumped, breathing hard.  Your whole body is still tinglin’ with hormones and endorphins and shit, but now it’s only about 10% of that throbbing, pitch-black need and about 90% shaky, panicky terror.  You knocked his glasses off; from this distance you can see the difference of light and dark in his eyes as he drifts them back up to his face in a bed of sparks and settles them shakily back on the bridge of his pointy nose.  You split his lip.  The light points flick up to you, back down.  He can’t look at you.

That’s okay, because you’re havin’ considerable trouble lookin’ at him either. 

“…Sorry,” he says, and that should sound condescending when you were just tryin’ to drag the hatefulness outta him through his mouth, but there’s this tone to his voice, this sort of grim respect.  It feels like losin’ a sparrin’ match and getting’ a hand up.  It feels…okay.  “I forgot.” 

There's a moment of silence where you just stare at him kind of breathless, confused, still trying to breathe, and he flinches from how you're lookin' at him.  He rubs a hand over his face and then looks up at you and grimaces.  “…yeah, uh…”

Oh fuck he’s going to take it back he’s going to leave, _fuck_.

“…don’t let it happen again,” you tell him, with all the authority you can muster, and his stupid multi-colored eyes go wide and spark for a second with surprise before you wave him off with a regal hand and he bristles.  “And work on your kissin’ too, shit’s disgraceffff _FFUCK—!_ ”

He just smacked you in the gills and almost kneed you in the crotch.  You punch him in his stupid scrawny stomach. 

Yeah, you figure, and grab his hair to kiss him again like your heart’s not beatin’ in your throat.  Yeah. 

You could get used to this.

\--

Your name is Sollux Captor and oh my god, _busy_ right now, fuck off!  Go be some other stupid asshole!

\--

Your name is Gamzee Makara and you can’t do this shit right now, you’re jamming.  Come back later.

\--

Your name is Karkat Vantas and YOU HEARD HIM WHO ELSE WOULD HE BE JAMMING WITH WHY WOULD YOU EVEN TRY TO oh—oh, that feels nice…

\--

Your name is Tavros Nitram and you are asleep at your desk on top of a pile of papers.  You are dreaming, as you often do, about flying.  You are so tired and pitiable, we will choose not to disturb you.  Sleep well, your Humility.

\--

Your name is Feferi Peixes and Y-----ES FIN-ALLY.  Shhhh!  Watching!

\--

Your name is Eridan Ampora and right now you’re winning and you’re happy and that’s all there is to say.

 

 


End file.
